Not the One

i

The bottles grasped and shaken
in the tub under the yellowing tile.

They laughed with mouths open
too wide. Soon, she’ll get up from this field

to recall rising from his bed. Her slip
twisted, stuck to her hips and back.

ii

Even as he whispers
she looses the sound: his throat

catching itself on guitar strings,
a single drum. She wonders

if he can reach through summer
take the oars and get them back

across that sheet of dark glass
to the centre of the lake.

iii

Now, there is this: a table,
empty wine glasses, stained;

a starless sky that keeps everything
down. Someone turns on

the car and porch lights
for a midnight swim.

There are firecrackers,
a twirling a crinoline. And burgundy lipstick

on the mouth of his new love.

.

.

No One Prepares for the Fall

My blueprint shows continental drift, hot air
balloons. It’s summer and the paper airplanes

glide over chalked bicycles, birds. On rainy days
I am reminded: I should have had a plan; should have

practiced absence in advance. But I was too busy
looking up into eyes, surprised by their particular shade every time.

.

.


Alexandra Pasian is a freelance writer living and teaching in Montreal, Quebec. Among other journals, her work has appeared in Arc, CV2,Event, and The Fiddlehead. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from Concordia University.